Third Sunday After Lent​ John Keble

When a strong man armed keepeth his place, his goods are in peace; but when a stronger than he shall come upon him, and overcome him, he taketh from him all his armour wherein he trusted, and divideth his spoils. St. Luke xi. 21, 22.See Lucifer like lightning fall, Dashed from his throne of pride; While, answering Thy victorious call, The Saints his spoils divide; This world of Thine, by him usurped too long,Now opening all her stores to heal Thy servants’ wrong. So when the first-born of Thy foes Dead in the darkness lay, When Thy redeemed at midnight rose And cast their bonds away, The orphaned realm threw wide her gates, and toldInto freed Israel’s lap her jewels and her gold. And when their wondrous march was o’er, And they had won their homes, Where Abraham fed his flock of yore, Among their fathers’ tombs;-- A land that drinks the rain of Heaven at will,Whose waters kiss the feet of many a vine-clad hill;-- Oft as they watched, at thoughtful eve, A gale from bowers of balm Sweep o’er the billowy corn, and heave The tresses of the palm, Just as the lingering Sun had touched with gold,Far o’er the cedar shade, some tower of giants old; It was a fearful joy, I ween, To trace the Heathen’s toil, The limpid wells, the orchards green, Left ready for the spoil, The household stores untouched, the roses brightWreathed o’er the cottage walls in garlands of delight. And now another Canaan yields To Thine all-conquering ark:-- Fly from the “old poetic” fields, Ye Paynim shadows dark! Immortal Greece, dear land of glorious lays,Lo! here the “unknown God” of thy unconscious praise. The olive-wreath, the ivied wand, “The sword in myrtles drest,” Each legend of the shadowy strand Now wakes a vision blest; As little children lisp, and tell of Heaven,So thoughts beyond their thought to those high Bards were given. And these are ours: Thy partial grace The tempting treasure lends: These relies of a guilty race Are forfeit to Thy friends; What seemed an idol hymn, now breathes of Thee,Tuned by Faith’s ear to some celestial melody. There’s not a strain to Memory dear, Nor flower in classic grove, There’s not a sweet note warbled here, But minds us of Thy Love. O Lord, our Lord, and spoiler of our foes,There is no light but Thine: with Thee all beauty glows.​

from The Temple (1633), by George Herbert: ¶ Lent.

Welcome dear feast of Lent: who loves not thee, He loves not Temperance, or Authority, But is compos'd of passion.The Scriptures bid us fast; the Church says, now: Give to thy Mother, what thou wouldst allowTo ev'ry Corporation.

The humble soul compos'd of love and fearBegins at home, and lays the burden there, When doctrines disagree, He says, in things which use hath justly got, I am a scandal to the Church, and notThe Church is so to me.

True Christians should be glad of an occasionTo use their temperance, seeking no evasion, When good is seasonable; Unless Authority, which should increaseThe obligation in us, make it less, And Power itself disable.

Besides the cleanness of sweet abstinence, Quick thoughts and motions at a small expense, A face not fearing light: Whereas in fulness there are sluttish fumes, Sour exhalations, and dishonest rheums, Revenging the delight.

Then those same pendant profits, which the springAnd Easter intimate, enlarge the thing, And goodness of the deed.Neither ought other men's abuse of LentSpoil the good use; lest by that argumentWe forfeit all our Creed.

It's true, we cannot reach Christ's forti'eth day; Yet to go part of that religious way, Is better than to rest: We cannot reach our Saviour's purity; Yet we are bid, 'Be holy ev'n as he, 'In both let's do our best.

Who goeth in the way which Christ hath gone, Is much more sure to meet with him, than oneThat travelleth by-ways: Perhaps my God, though he be far before, May turn and take me by the hand, and more: May strengthen my decays.

Yet Lord instruct us to improve our fastBy starving sin and taking such repast, As may our faults control: That ev'ry man may revel at his door, Not in his parlour; banqueting the poor, And among those his soul. ​

Ash Wednesday​ T. S. Eliot

I

Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man's gift and that man's scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign? Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still. Pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death Pray for us now and at the hour of our death.

II

Lady, three white leopards sat under a juniper-tree In the cool of the day, having fed to sateity On my legs my heart my liver and that which had been contained In the hollow round of my skull. And God said Shall these bones live? shall these Bones live? And that which had been contained In the bones (which were already dry) said chirping: Because of the goodness of this Lady And because of her loveliness, and because She honours the Virgin in meditation, We shine with brightness. And I who am here dissembled Proffer my deeds to oblivion, and my love To the posterity of the desert and the fruit of the gourd. It is this which recovers My guts the strings of my eyes and the indigestible portions Which the leopards reject. The Lady is withdrawn In a white gown, to contemplation, in a white gown. Let the whiteness of bones atone to forgetfulness. There is no life in them. As I am forgotten And would be forgotten, so I would forget Thus devoted, concentrated in purpose. And God said Prophesy to the wind, to the wind only for only The wind will listen. And the bones sang chirping With the burden of the grasshopper, saying Lady of silences Calm and distressed Torn and most whole Rose of memory Rose of forgetfulness Exhausted and life-giving Worried reposeful The single Rose Is now the Garden Where all loves end Terminate torment Of love unsatisfied The greater torment Of love satisfied End of the endless Journey to no end Conclusion of all that Is inconclusible Speech without word and Word of no speech Grace to the Mother For the Garden Where all love ends. Under a juniper-tree the bones sang, scattered and shining We are glad to be scattered, we did little good to each other, Under a tree in the cool of day, with the blessing of sand, Forgetting themselves and each other, united In the quiet of the desert. This is the land which ye Shall divide by lot. And neither division nor unity Matters. This is the land. We have our inheritance.

III

At the first turning of the second stair I turned and saw below The same shape twisted on the banister Under the vapour in the fetid air Struggling with the devil of the stairs who wears The deceitul face of hope and of despair. At the second turning of the second stair I left them twisting, turning below; There were no more faces and the stair was dark, Damp, jaggèd, like an old man's mouth drivelling, beyond repair, Or the toothed gullet of an agèd shark. At the first turning of the third stair Was a slotted window bellied like the figs's fruit And beyond the hawthorn blossom and a pasture scene The broadbacked figure drest in blue and green Enchanted the maytime with an antique flute. Blown hair is sweet, brown hair over the mouth blown, Lilac and brown hair; Distraction, music of the flute, stops and steps of the mind over the third stair, Fading, fading; strength beyond hope and despair Climbing the third stair. Lord, I am not worthy Lord, I am not worthy but speak the word only.

IV

Who walked between the violet and the violet When walked between The various ranks of varied green Going in white and blue, in Mary's colour, Talking of trivial things In ignorance and knowledge of eternal dolour Who moved among the others as they walked, Who then made strong the fountains and made fresh the springs Made cool the dry rock and made firm the sand In blue of larkspur, blue of Mary's colour, Sovegna vos Here are the years that walk between, bearing Away the fiddles and the flutes, restoring One who moves in the time between sleep and waking, wearing White light folded, sheathing about her, folded. The new years walk, restoring Through a bright cloud of tears, the years, restoring With a new verse the ancient rhyme. Redeem The time. Redeem The unread vision in the higher dream While jewelled unicorns draw by the gilded hearse. The silent sister veiled in white and blue Between the yews, behind the garden god, Whose flute is breathless, bent her head and signed but spoke no word But the fountain sprang up and the bird sang down Redeem the time, redeem the dream The token of the word unheard, unspoken Till the wind shake a thousand whispers from the yew And after this our exile

V

If the lost word is lost, if the spent word is spent If the unheard, unspoken Word is unspoken, unheard; Still is the unspoken word, the Word unheard, The Word without a word, the Word within The world and for the world; And the light shone in darkness and Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled About the centre of the silent Word. O my people, what have I done unto thee. Where shall the word be found, where will the word Resound? Not here, there is not enough silence Not on the sea or on the islands, not On the mainland, in the desert or the rain land, For those who walk in darkness Both in the day time and in the night time The right time and the right place are not here No place of grace for those who avoid the face No time to rejoice for those who walk among noise and deny the voice Will the veiled sister pray for Those who walk in darkness, who chose thee and oppose thee, Those who are torn on the horn between season and season, time and time, between Hour and hour, word and word, power and power, those who wait In darkness? Will the veiled sister pray For children at the gate Who will not go away and cannot pray: Pray for those who chose and oppose O my people, what have I done unto thee. Will the veiled sister between the slender Yew trees pray for those who offend her And are terrified and cannot surrender And affirm before the world and deny between the rocks In the last desert before the last blue rocks The desert in the garden the garden in the desert Of drouth, spitting from the mouth the withered apple-seed. O my people.

VI

Although I do not hope to turn again Although I do not hope Although I do not hope to turn Wavering between the profit and the loss In this brief transit where the dreams cross The dreamcrossed twilight between birth and dying (Bless me father) though I do not wish to wish these things From the wide window towards the granite shore The white sails still fly seaward, seaward flying Unbroken wings And the lost heart stiffens and rejoices In the lost lilac and the lost sea voices And the weak spirit quickens to rebel For the bent golden-rod and the lost sea smell Quickens to recover The cry of quail and the whirling plover And the blind eye creates The empty forms between the ivory gates And smell renews the salt savour of the sandy earth This is the time of tension between dying and birth The place of solitude where three dreams cross Between blue rocks But when the voices shaken from the yew-tree drift away Let the other yew be shaken and reply. Blessèd sister, holy mother, spirit of the fountain, spirit of the garden, Suffer us not to mock ourselves with falsehood Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still Even among these rocks, Our peace in His will And even among these rocks Sister, mother And spirit of the river, spirit of the sea, Suffer me not to be separated And let my cry come unto Thee.